


as the world comes to an end

by scheherazade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Euro 2016, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 07:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7424974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Lukas grips his arm, same place the football had ricocheted off of, and Bastian feels just as helpless as he did then — knowing that it wouldn't matter, even if he didn't mean it — because this is just how it goes.</i><br/> </p><p>After the semifinal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as the world comes to an end

**Author's Note:**

> **me:** i sat down to write tenimyu fic and this happened instead.  
>  **mer:** i accept this substitution  
>  **me:** wish i could say the same for what happened in the 79th minute  
>     
> title is from "king and lionheart" because i'm a cliche, this is 100% gratuitous, and i have no excuse for any of this. i don't even go here.  
>  

Thomas opens his mouth, closes it, fidgets — opens his mouth again — closes it again — until finally Bastian tells him,

"Spit it out already."

"I'm sorry," Thomas blurts, like the words tripped on their way out of his mouth. "I could've done better. I should've done better. I'm sorry."

Bastian snorts, because it's so typically Thomas. But because it's Thomas, he manages a tired smile anyway.

"Get 'em next time, kid. Like Miro used to say, yeah?"

Thomas nods. "Yeah. We'll definitely—" He frowns. "I mean. Four years is a long time."

 _Plenty of time to find your scoring boots, wherever you've misplaced them._ That could be what he meant. Doesn't sound like it, though. Bastian decides he doesn't want to know, because what's the point? 

It's over. The locker room quiets down, as most of the team's already left, showered and scampered off to find girlfriends or family or booze. Not necessarily in that order. 

In one corner, Manuel is studiously not making eye contact with anyone as he packs up his things. Elsewhere, the last of the showers turns off, and Mesut wanders out, blinking. Because of the steam. Probably.

It's over.

Thomas is still standing in front of him, frowning. 

"Get out of here," Bastian tells him. "Call Lisa and get some sleep. Go on. Captain's orders."

Thomas blinks at him. Bastian claps his shoulder, giving him a slight push toward the door as he heads for the showers himself. 

The hot water feels good, soothes his screaming muscles even if it can't do anything about the bone-deep anger. At least, he thinks it's anger; bitterness would be a step too close to regret. 

By the time he emerges, the locker room is empty. He pulls on some clothes and checks his phone. A dozen emails, two missed calls from Ana, and a text:

_Hey where'd u go?_

"Basti?"

Water drips from his hair into his eyes when he looks up. The room blurs, hazy as a memory, and for that split second he could have been in a locker room in Lisbon, in Vienna, in Warsaw. 

He blinks it away as Lukas walks through the door.

"Yeah," says Bastian. "Just saw your text. What do you need?"

Lukas raises one eyebrow. "Do I need to need something from you?" 

"What?"

"You don't need to captain me, you know." Lukas sits on the bench beside him, bumps his shoulder. "At ease, soldier."

"Shut up." Bastian feels the last of the tension drain out of him anyway, leaving him weak. At least Lukas' shoulder is more comfortable than the weird edges of the wall. Damn French architecture. "What're you still doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"Why?"

"Because."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Does it need to mean something?"

"Shut up."

"Okay," says Lukas, easy as anything. 

He doesn't complain, though Bastian's been leaning on him long enough to get his shirt damp, too. He should probably dry his hair. And he will. Just as soon as he finds the energy to get up. 

He says, "Müller's seriously trying to inherit somebody's savior complex — naming no names, but the little shit actually _apologized_ to me earlier. Can you believe him? He needs to get his priorities in order."

Lukas snorts. "Only you would get mad at somebody for that."

"I'm not mad at him."

"Don't be."

"I literally just said—"

"Kid's probably looking at the roster and shitting himself realizing _he'll_ have to be one of the responsible ones pretty soon. I feel for him."

"Since when were _you_ responsible?"

"Since never," Lukas agrees cheerfully, "but I had you."

"And he doesn't?"

"Not forever."

Bastian's heart does a weird thing, and he's so used to it by now that it barely registers. Twelve years will do that to a person, he thinks. Same way some injuries, some aches eventually fade into a background of constant hurt.

Anyway, that's not even what Lukas meant.

"I'm literally right here, you know." It sounds more or less like his normal complaining voice. "You assholes keep going on like I'm about to drop dead or retire—"

"Priorities, huh?"

"It's what I do."

"Yeah," Lukas agrees, like he always does, solid and unassuming. "And you do it well. Fuck them that says anything otherwise. If it was up to me, I'd also pick you, ten times out of ten. Every time."

 _Fuck you,_ Bastian wants to say but can't, because his throat's closed up and also because that's not what he means.

Lukas grips his arm, same place the football had ricocheted off of, and Bastian feels just as helpless as he did then — knowing that it wouldn't matter, even if he didn't mean it — because this is just how it goes.

"Glad you're not getting a coaching license," Bastian tells him, when he finds his voice again, "or we'd end up with a squad based on how long people have lived in Cologne, probably."

"I mean, better Cologne than Munich." Lukas grins at him. Ruffles his hair, like they're kids again, sending droplets of water everywhere. "You'll be fine, yeah?"

"Yeah," says Bastian. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good."

Lukas presses a kiss to his forehead, benediction and consolation — or maybe just Lukas being Lukas. Bastian finds that he doesn't really care. Not today. Maybe not ever. Regrets are for people who've given up, and he's not there yet.

"Ready to head back?" Lukas asks. 

Bastian nods. "I should call Ana first. Meet you outside?"

"Okay."

Lukas leaves while Bastian puts on his shoes, packs up his things and checks his phone again. Still the same list of missed calls, but there's a new text — from Philipp. Just one line: 

_Come back stronger._

Bastian smiles to himself. Trust Philipp to sum it up just like that, when it'd taken the rest of them most of the evening to search for something even resembling words. Then again, Philipp gets it. Not in the same way Lukas gets him, maybe — but who does.

He writes back,

_Count on it._


End file.
